by Kendall Ryan
“Jerome sounds nice.” Karina smiles, but I can tell her heart isn’t in it.
“What?” What could possibly be the problem here?
“I just thought you were going to bring Slate,” she says, and Gabby nods in agreement.
“Why would I bring Slate?” I hear myself asking, my voice coming out too high-pitched. I instantly regret asking them the question. My throat goes dry.
“Uh,” Karina says, “maybe it’s because he’s a ton of fun and clearly cares about you.”
“Yeah.” Gabby shrugs. “I mean, Jerome feels like a pit stop to the main destination.”
“Jerome is not a pit stop.” I frown. Is he?
And Slate can’t be the destination. For one, Slate has zero interest in being anyone’s destination. I know that very well. Tanya did a freaking number on him, and he swore off relationships ever since. He has way too much fun playing the field to ever change.
Karina takes another sip, then says, “Kinda feels that way.”
We all turn back to the screen. Now the two protagonists are mashing their faces together in a climactic scene of passion. With the orchestral swell and the dramatic rainfall, everything about this scene feels contrived. I struggle not to roll my eyes.
I sink deeper into the love seat, supremely annoyed.
Jerome is a real person. True, I would have never considered asking him out until now. He’s the kind of guy you ogle from afar until you watch him slide right through your fingers because you never had the guts to take that step.
It’s in this moment that I realize my sexploration has been about more than improving my blow-job skills, or sharpening my dirty-talk routine. It’s about amping up my confidence to what I can bring to a relationship. And when I’m ready, I’ll be that much more prepared. Maybe to ask out Jerome, or maybe someone else. My own personal sex coach will turn me into a certified love machine.
Watching this two-dimensional potato of a woman fall for yet another heart-of-gold playboy, it becomes very clear to me that I am not her, and certainly will never be. The actress spent most of this movie pining for a man who only showed her affection in brief, confusing encounters. And then suddenly, there’s a big moment when he admits he can’t stay away from her any longer. What? I want to puke. Why is this so dramatic?
I’m suddenly even more grateful for my friendship with Slate. We’ve had such a positive partnership this past week. Good conversations, good laughs, good sexy times. No drama whatsoever.
A quiet thought pops into in my head. He’s the healthiest relationship you could ask for. The difference? I would never pine for Slate. He’s a friend, and only a friend. Don’t they always say not to date your friends? Sure, he has a top-notch sense of humor. And he’s a great conversationalist. And he gets along bizarrely well with Penny. And his ass is absolutely—
No. Stop, Keaton.
Slate is not boyfriend material. He’s not looking for a girlfriend; he’s the king of hookups. Thinking it could lead to something more would make me no better than this dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks heroine in the movie. And I’m much too smart for that nonsense.
Before my mind travels too far out of Rational Town, I redirect my attention back to Karina and Gabby. Focus, Keaton. It’s girls’ night.
As I stare blankly at the movie screen, I repeat over and over in my mind. I will not get in over my head with Slate. I will not get in over my head with Slate. I will not get in over my head with Slate . . .
This is it. Tonight’s the big night.
After practicing for so long with manual and oral and dirty talk, giving me just enough of Keaton to whet my appetite for more, we’ve arrived at the main event. I’m finally going to discover what it feels like to be inside her.
My blood has been humming with eagerness all day. As soon as I hit SEND on my last work email, I text Keaton.
When will you be done?
I’m just wrapping up now, actually. Impatient for tonight? :P
My lips quirk. Yes, I’m always impatient to touch Keaton, but that’s beside the point.
I want to take you out to dinner.
A long pause, then one lone word of reply.
Why?
I ponder her question for a minute. Honestly, I don’t have a solid answer. But what does it matter why I want to? Treating her to a nice evening just seems like the right thing to do. Tonight will be an important first for us, so I feel like I should give the proceedings some . . . romance is the wrong word. A little more ceremony than usual? Whatever you’d call it, I want to do more than just meet up at my place to screw. Some acknowledgment that tonight is special.
Finally, I type back with the safest response I can think of.
We have to eat sometime, don’t we?
I can just grab something quick on my own.
True, but I was thinking a nice meal. We’ll need our energy for all the exercise we’re going to get later.
Oh, really?
I can perfectly imagine her tone, skepticism turning to playful interest. And then my phone chimes with her reply.
Well, if you insist . . . then sure, dinner sounds fun. I’m ready when you are.
On my way. See you in 15.
When I arrive, Keaton’s waiting for me outside her building’s front entrance. In her black dress pants and white collared blouse, she exudes a smart, classy professionalism that makes me imagine her closing big deals, gracefully fielding tough calls with intimidating bigwigs, the almighty queen of her office—as well as all the not-safe-for-work things we could do in that office with the door locked. Of course, she’d look hot in anything, but each outfit she wears is a different kind of sexy, and I appreciate seeing every possible variation.
I park in the closest open space and get out to open the passenger door for her.
Walking over, she says, “You didn’t have to do that,” even as she fights a smile.
“I know,” I reply simply.
She shakes her head at me, still smiling, and climbs into the passenger seat. I shut the door and walk around the car to get back in the driver’s seat.
“So, where are we going?” she asks, buckling herself in.
I flash her a mischievous smirk. “It’s a surprise.”
While browsing online yesterday, I came across a new Italian bistro I thought she might like. The reviews said it was quiet and intimate, had a sizable wine list, and offered attentive service. Overall, it sounded like a good date place, and I made the snap decision to try it out. As delicious as the cheap, greasy burritos at our usual place can be, trying something more upscale will be refreshing. Plus, the chance to treat Keaton makes me smile. We never do things like this together, and it seems only right that we should—especially since she’s treating me to something very precious later.
We slip into easy conversation, swapping stories about our day. And when we arrive, I usher Keaton inside with my hand on the small of her back. It’s hard to miss the way her lips quirk up in a smile.
The restaurant is cozy and unpretentious—warm, with soft lighting, plain brick walls, hardwood floors, no more than a dozen tables draped with white cloths. The hostess seats us at a table where we can see over a half wall and into the bustling kitchen.
Keaton scans the menu for a minute before her blue eyes turn huge. “Oh my God. They have lobster macaroni and cheese? I didn’t even know that was a thing.” She sneaks an uncertain glance at me over the top of her menu.
I shrug with a smile. “If you want it, go for it.” My philosophy on life.
She bites her lip and grins. “I mean, I practically have to. This opportunity doesn’t present itself every day.”
How is she so fucking cute? That face would be worth the price of any dish.
When the waiter returns, I order the lobster mac for her, along with veal ravioli for me and whatever wine the sommelier recommends. He brings over a bottle of Chablis and pours us each a glass.
I sip slowly, enjoying the earthy, tart flavor. “Was this a nice surpris
e?”
“It’s wonderful.” With a sultry glint in her eyes, Keaton adds, “But I’m more excited about what you’ve got up your sleeve for later tonight.”
My mind goes blank. X-rated thoughts have filtered through my brain all day while at work, but now’s not the time to discuss them. I’ll end up sporting a hard-on all through dinner.
I take a deep breath to clear my head. “No spoilers. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
“The surprises don’t end with dinner?” Her grin spreads wider. “I see how it is—letting the anticipation build up. You tease.”
“That’s right.” Actually, it’s because I suddenly forgot everything I have planned. I change the subject in an attempt to recover from my fumble. “So, how was your day?” I ask, leaning toward her and resting my chin on my hand, the picture of attentiveness.
We chat about work for a while. Or mostly, she chats about work, and I listen while trying to figure out how I lost my flow.
Why am I so nervous? Tonight will be exactly like all the other times we’ve fooled around. We’re just having some harmless adult fun—and when we’re done, our friendship will be there waiting for us on the other side, exactly how we left it.
But I can’t silence the tiny part of me that knows otherwise.
Sex changes relationships. No matter what I keep telling myself, what we keep telling each other, that’s how it works 99 percent of the time. It’s not impossible that we’ll come out of this fling exactly the same way we went in, but it’s sure as hell unlikely. And I don’t know how to feel about that.
The one thing I do know is I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt her. Taking care of her heart is the absolute most important thing. So, maybe that’s all I really need to focus on? But that’s easy, right, not being a prick? I can do that.
Our food arrives, and I realize that Keaton has gone quiet. Shit, I’ve been lost in thought and ignored her too long. Bad date etiquette . . . no, this isn’t a date. Whatever. Bad hangout etiquette, no matter who’s involved.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
She looks up from grinding pepper onto her food. “Hmm?”
“Are you sure you want to do this with me?” I hold her gaze steadily, wishing I could read her mind to see if she shares my uneasy thoughts.
“Of course.” She sounds slightly confused. “You’re the best person for the job. You’ve got experience, you know what you’re doing, and I trust you to be honest and tell me if I suck.” She snorts at her own unintentional joke. “I mean, the metaphorical, bad kind of sucking.”
That isn’t what I’ve been brooding over. But all I can do is let the point go.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, and I genuinely am. At least it means I’m not fucking anything up . . . yet.
We eat for a few minutes in much more comfortable silence. Then I say, “For the record, you don’t suck. Not even a little bit. You’re amazing.”
Her brilliant, slightly shy smile makes me think maybe everything will work out fine in the end, and I was worrying for nothing.
Then Keaton makes a low moaning sound as she tries her first bite of lobster macaroni and cheese, and all those X-rated thoughts come galloping back full force.
By the time we finish our meal, my cock has overtaken my brain, driving out all my worries and jitters. Now I’m just excited as hell to get us back to my bed.
I pay the bill, leaving a generous tip, then stand up to help Keaton from her seat. Her cheeks are slightly pink, and I can tell her mind is already on what will happen later too.
Outside the restaurant, I offer Keaton my arm. “Shall we?”
She giggles and grips my forearm, and I don’t think I’m imagining that she feels just as revved up as I do.
The sun has set; the streetlights ignite one by one as we drive back to my apartment. When I let us inside, Keaton looks around with such interest that I have to ask, “What?”
She pauses, as if trying to figure out the right way to answer. “It’s just, well, I’ve never seen your place so clean before.”
I shrug, trying to downplay it. “Hey, now.” But she’s right—my normal housekeeping isn’t nearly so impeccable. I spent hours yesterday cleaning up for her visit, and I’m glad she’s impressed.
She stifles a chuckle. “Sorry. You asked.”
I pull her close, murmuring into her ear, “You’re going to pay for that comment.”
“Promise?” Her voice is already husky.
I kiss her and she responds eagerly, her arms winding around my neck to pull me closer, to make me give her more . . . harder . . . hotter. Our tongues tangle in a fiery dance as we share quiet moans of pleasure and anticipation.
We can barely stand to break contact long enough to get into the bedroom.
“Do you want me to take off my glasses?” We’re sprawled across his bed already when the question slips out of me.
Slate doesn’t stop kissing my neck, his lips still brushing the sensitive skin along my jaw as he murmurs, “Why would that matter?”
“I don’t know.” I laugh. “Just wondering what your preference is.”
I remember the college boys who were always preoccupied with whether I wore them during sex or not. “Don’t they get in the way?” they would ask, as if they were actually concerned with my personal comfort. Or then there were the enthusiasts, adamant that I keep them on the whole time. “You look like a sexy librarian,” they would say, their eyes glazed over in whatever strange fantasy they were enjoying by themselves. Or worse, my ex-boyfriend who thought removing his glasses was the only foreplay needed.
My silly running thoughts fumble to a halt when Slate takes my face between his large, masculine hands. Between featherlight kisses on my cheekbones, hairline, and lips, he whispers, “Glasses or no glasses. Doesn’t matter to me. I want you right now.”
The certainty in his voice sends shivers of pleasure down my spine. This is a side of Slate I haven’t seen yet. There are so many sides of him I’m seeing for the first time, like that rare moment of seriousness during dinner. I could sense that something was on his mind. I hope I calmed the brewing storm behind that furrowed brow. I thought I knew all of his sides before, but the more time I spend with him, the more of a mystery he becomes to me.
Fortunately, there isn’t anything mysterious about the sensation of the tip of his tongue drawing soft lines along the top of my breasts. He’s unbuttoned my blouse, revealing just enough cleavage for him to enjoy. My chest rises and falls with each labored breath; I can’t help but get worked up over the feel of his affectionate touches. I’ve always had a very sensitive chest, so each breath and gentle press of his lips has my head spinning. I lift my hips involuntarily, my body naturally seeking his in a desire for more friction.
He’s positioned on top of me, and I can feel his erection pressed against my hip, but just like the first time we made out on my bed, he’s getting an A-plus in foreplay. Basically, he’s driving me insane with desire, and I’m not even sure he knows it.
When I let out a soft, need-filled sound, something inside Slate’s perfect self-control seems to snap.
Everything turns hotter, faster. Our fingers work at each other’s buttons, and our own, to reveal more skin to drag teeth and lips across in a tantalizing search for our most sensitive spots.
He finds mine with little trouble, rubbing the tip of his nose over the satin of my bra. My nipple is fully erect beneath the fabric, waiting in anticipation for his touch. I arch my back and he takes the cue to unfasten my bra with one hand, while cupping one of my breasts with a firm squeeze in the other. His hands feel so good, so right. I can’t help but anticipate how the rest of him will feel. My heart is pounding with excitement. I wonder if he can feel it under his fingertips.
The straps of my bra slide easily off my shoulders, and together we toss the garment aside. I pull at his shirt until we’re both naked from the waist up, taking in the sight of each other’s bare torsos. Slate is ripped, to say the
least. His lean frame is accented by the unmistakable presence of muscle, a surprise to me as his number-one, brunch-binge buddy.
I run my fingers across the broad expanse of his shoulders, down his pecs and over his abs, loving all the firm muscles I find there. I’ve never done this before, never lingered with his body, and I’m enjoying it more than I ever thought possible.
Meanwhile, Slate feasts on the sight of my breasts. They’re full and heavy, each topped with a rosy nipple—that are currently waiting to be touched by someone as skilled as Slate. He leans down, brushing his lips ever so gently across the tip of my right breast.
“Please, Slate.” I moan, barely recognizing my own voice in its desperation.
“Yes, baby.” His lips close over my breast in response, drawing my nipple into his mouth with a gentle suck.
I could scream aloud in sheer pleasure as his tongue draws languid circles around it. Slate moans in response to my enthusiasm, wrapping his arms tightly around me. He kisses across my breast bone to give my other nipple the attention it deserves.
I’m not concerned with fairness as much as I am with getting his pants off and squeezing that perfect ass between my naked thighs. I push him up, and it seems we’re on the same wavelength, because we both begin pulling at the rest of each other’s clothes, desperate to be bare, skin on skin.
His cock is just as I remember it, gorgeous and thick, with a vein on the underside begging to be licked. Before I can wrap my lips around its head to give it the good, hard suck it deserves for simply existing, he pushes me back onto the sheets. I land with a soft gasp, aroused by his change in demeanor.
Wild-eyed and with tousled hair, Slate really does look like some sort of god of desire. His cock presses gently against the soft, wet petals of my sex. What is he waiting for?
I look into his eyes, and the question is there. Are you sure?